


The wee small hours of the morning

by savvyliterate



Series: Lessons for Lonely Hearts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:03:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvyliterate/pseuds/savvyliterate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a chance Molly would walk up to a cold, empty flat, but it at least got her away from the wedding, away from Tom who whispered about setting a date during the cake cutting, and back in her own head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The wee small hours of the morning

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first foray into "Sherlock" fanfic, and I'm quite pleased with how it turned out. Writing Sherlock was easier than I thought, but it was very difficult to get into his head. The fic title comes from Frank Sinatra's song of the same name. Much thanks to areyoumarriedriver for the beta! This fic takes place just after the end of "Sign of Three" and contains spoilers.

She’d pleaded a headache the moment the dance was done, waved off Tom’s suggestion they go back to his place. It’s still very much his place and her place, because just when she was getting to the point of giving into absurdly high London rents and thinking Toby would cope so they could get their own place, he had come back. Then, somehow, Molly found herself signing another year on her lease and explaining to Tom that she just hadn’t found a place she liked yet.

“Wedding’s still awhile off, yeah?” she told him. “Plenty of time to find something then.”

Despite his bumbling stupidity (once upon a time, it had been endearing) and his pushiness to see Molly home to make sure she was OK, she slipped away from the reception hall before Tom could find his coat. Luck was on her side. She found taxis already waiting for inebriated guests, went to the nearest tube station, then took it into the heart of London. Here, she was following instinct. There was a chance she would walk up to a cold, empty flat, but it at least got her away from the wedding, away from Tom who whispered about setting a date during the cake cutting, and back in her own head.

Even though her feet ached viciously from the unfamiliar heels she wore, she walked from the tube station. By the time she rounded the corner to Baker Street, tears leaked down her cheeks. The pain pushed everything else from her mind, and she did her absolute best not to limp. When she reached the door of 221B, she was blind to everything but getting to a point where she could hurl those bloody shoes into the bin.

“Wearing excessively high heels can cause issues with calf muscles, along with significant back pain. They force the arch into an unnatural position, causing sores to develop on the balls of your feet and corns. Your pelvis is being rotated as well, something that could impair future childbearing, a consideration given you recently claimed you were having quite a lot of sex.”

Molly squeezed her eyes shut. “ _Sherlock_.”

He swept past her; still dressed in the morning suit he wore to the wedding and his coat. “Not to mention you just walked from the tube station. A mere 390 feet, but you had to walk at a quick pace to make the correct trains to arrive here at this exact time. Which means you left approximately 10 minutes after I made my own departure from John and Mary’s reception. Enough time for the song to finish, for you to plead a headache. A headache, because it’s the traditional response for a woman who wishes to dissuade her partner from sexual intercourse, but not quite as vulgar as saying you’re observing your menses. It’s just enough though that you don’t require an escort home. A home that you still occupy alone, even though the rent on your flat went up approximately 22% this year, and there are several cheaper and larger accommodations that are large enough for two. Now, aren’t you coming in?”

Just as Molly wrapped her brain around the sheer wall of observation, and damn it he was spot on about the rent, she noticed he had the door open. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She followed him up the stairs, biting back a whimper. “Do you want me to get the tea?” she asked when they walked into the lounge.

“Contrary to popular opinion, I can make a cup of tea.” With that terse permission, Molly sank gratefully into one of the wing-backed chairs and slipped her feet out of the shoes. 

“You shouldn’t wear those,” he scolded as he walked into the kitchen.

“I like them. They’re nice.”

“You hate them. You only wear them because they go with that ridiculous outfit. You got them off the clearance rack at M&S and feel guilty about it because you actually like Mary, one of the few that do, and didn’t want to accidentally offend her. Rather commendable, since I am fond of her as well. However, you’re far better suited to muted styles and less meretricious bows. It makes you look like a child dressing up for a tea party. You’re a sensible woman, which is why your horrid sense of fashion is rather fascinating.”

Sherlock set the mug in front of her, and Molly lunged for it.  “Thank you,” she said, hoping she wasn’t gritting her teeth too much. She started to take a sip, then lifted her eyebrows. “Eyeball-free?”

“I only put a thumb in there this time.”

“Fair enough.” The mug hid her smile, the first one all day. Oh, it felt good to smile. She closed her eyes and relaxed into the chair. There was the faint, lingering scent of tobacco. Despite Sherlock’s abstinence from smoking, it still clung to the air. Over that was some sort of air freshener Mrs. Hudson most likely sprayed about, and the lingering acrid stench of an experiment gone wrong. It cleared her head of all of the flowers at the wedding. OK. She cradled the mug in her hands. “Sherlock-”

He cut her off by dropping onto the sofa and lifting one of her feet into his lap.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

He dug his fingers into the aching arch, and her eyes rolled in the back of her head. A low moan escaped before she could stop it. She hastily put the tea down before she spilled it everywhere. God, his fingers were like everything she ever imagined. “Deep tissue massage is one of the recommended therapies for overstressed feet, as well as soaking them in a mineral bath.”

She knew what he was doing. They both knew why she was there. Her quiet observations at Bart’s two and a half years earlier, the day he had faked his death, weren’t forgotten. “They’re going to notice. John and Mary. They’re going to see that you’re gone, and they’ll wonder why.”

“They will be too busy trying to keep the news of Mary’s pregnancy a secret from the general public while trying to celebrate at the same time for them to give any notice.”

“Pregnant?” Molly’s smile returned. “That’s wonderful! How far along?”

“Given the signs, at least eight weeks. But, a gynecologist will confirm that.”

“You’re the one who told them, didn’t you?”

“I might have advised Mary to take a pregnancy test.”

She shook her head. Then she bit her lip again as he shifted his fingers and smoothed away another aching muscle. The low flutters of arousal in her stomach did nothing to help the situation.

“You know, I took additional measurements following the stag night,” he said conversationally. “It occurred to me that we were consuming far more alcohol than is recommended for someone of mine and John’s weight and constitution.”

She smirked.

“I should had seen the warning signs that you were lying considerably that day, about that and the amount of sexual intercourse you’re engaging in.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Your body is producing sexual pheromones in response to a simple foot massage. Your cheeks are flushed, and you’re restless. If you were engaging in frequent sexual intercourse, your body wouldn’t be quite so responsive. No, rule 1: the pathologist lies. About my alcohol tolerance and her own life. You haven’t engaged in sex in at least six months, which happens to correspond with my return to London. Probably mere coincidence, but most likely my return exposed bigger issues with your own relationship. You fiddle with your ring, you stab your fiancé with a fork. Not all is right in your world.”

“Sherlock, that’s enough.” Molly tried to pull her foot away. “Everything is all right with Tom.”

His hands tightened on her foot, and for the first time since meeting her on the street, his eyes met hers. “You look sad when no one can see you.”

She gave him a shaky smile. “Then, that’s the pair of us, isn’t it?”

He kept massaging her foot, and she closed her eyes and let him. The next thing she knew, she was on the sofa with Sherlock’s coat draped over her. Sunshine streamed through the not-quite closed curtains, and he sat at the desk typing furiously on his laptop. She sat up and tested her feet on the floor. The pain was gone, and her heels had disappeared. She dashed to the loo and tried to put herself to some sort of rights. There was no hope for the bow, so Molly binned it. She adjusted the wrinkled dress and splashed water on her face.

“Sherlock, have you seen my-” She stopped short when she noticed her heels in the kitchen. One was filled with dirt, and the other had been broken apart with bits of the plastic melting in a petri dish. She rolled her eyes. “Sherlock, I need some shoes to go home in.”

“Corner market has cheap flats. They’ll do. Now, I have a client who says he hasn’t seen his friend since they returned from Afghanistan. Well, friend is the common term, but they’re actually lovers. He’s been told the lover has gone off on a road trip in America, but when the client walked by his flat, he saw the lover’s face pressed against a window. Quite simple really, but it warrants an in-person interview. Care to accompany me?”

“Two days of crime solving in six months? I’m starting to think you’re sweet on me,” Molly teased and wondered if Mrs. Hudson had any shoes that would fit her.

“Don’t be coy, Molly, it doesn’t suit you.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward and prayed not to strangle him. 

But when she followed him out of 221B with a pair of Mrs. Hudson’s trainers on her feet, she might have accidentally on purpose left her engagement ring in the fridge with Sherlock’s latest collection of freshly culled femurs.


End file.
